Good Boy
by Skalidra
Summary: It's not all that unusual for Jason to contact him on his patrols every couple of weeks, asking if he wants to meet and fool around. Usually he agrees, if he hasn't got anything pressing to do for the night. It's not official, and it's not exactly healthy, but it works for them. At least until he shows up and Jason is hurt, and definitely not in any condition to play.


Welcome! This is another of the 100 prompts; number 25, 'Trouble Lurking'. Some BruJay got requested, and I am _happy_ to oblige. Enjoy!

 **Warnings** for : non-graphic injury/treating of injury, sub/dom themes, explicit sexual scenes, and praise kink.

* * *

He should be more surprised by the fact that midway through his patrol, he gets an alert telling him that the alarm has been triggered at one of his safehouses. For just a moment, he's concerned that someone might have _actually_ broken into one of his safehouses, perhaps in search of something to steal, until the alarm cuts off. On again. Off.

He doesn't sigh, watching the alarm cut in and out and spell out a familiar sequence of three letters, because Batman does not _sigh_. He definitely doesn't give in to the urge to scrub his hand over his face either, mostly because the most he'll manage through the cowl is some vague pressure, and that's not enough to be worth it. Unless one of his Robins is actively there and dragging the movement from him. He doesn't actually need to wait to see the rest of the morse code, and he adds the question mark on his own.

 _DTF?_

He considers that question, the night around him, his current active cases, who else is in Gotham tonight, and then, belatedly, his own level of internalized frustration and stress. He carefully _doesn't_ think of the look Alfred will pin him with in the morning, knowing precisely what he's been doing and not entirely approving. Not for his choice of partners, but for the fact that neither of them are open about it, or actually committing to the idea of a relationship, or being anything but physically healthy about it.

He bites back another sigh.

Remotely, he deactivates the alarm as well as the rest of the security. Jason won't need any more than that to make himself comfortable.

Patrol goes as well as he ever expects it to; no breakthroughs this night, no particularly hard or brutal fights, no mistakes. But lingering at the back of his mind is the knowledge of what he's agreed to, what he's promised when night is drawing closer to dawn. It's hard to say whether he should be looking forward to it or just accepting the fact that he's already all but said he'll be there. If he backs out now, without some catastrophic event to claim as an excuse, he'll have one extremely irritated Jason on his hands for at least a couple weeks. Or at least until the next time they can arrange something like this, and Jason can leave him with enough bruises to forgive him.

This isn't healthy, and it's not _right_ — Jason is his _son_ in too many ways, and yet nothing like it in too many others — but he can't seem to stop either. Jason is… too important. His ally, his partner, everything he lost and everything he can't _stand_ to lose again.

When the patrol is done as it ever will be, he makes his way to the night's chosen safehouse. He doesn't fool himself into thinking that his entrance through the window goes unnoticed, but it's habit more than any actual attempt to sneak in without being seen. He shuts the glass behind him, tugs the curtain closed to shroud the bedroom in darkness again and then reactivates his security systems, to make sure that no one interrupts them.

"Take off the suit off and get over here," Jason grumbles, from the direction of the bed.

He lets himself smirk for just a second at the sleep-roughened rumble, but obeys the demand. Piece by piece, he pulls the suit and cowl off, as the bed creaks faintly and there's movement. Without the cowl helping him see he can't quite make out the specific movements — his eyes haven't adjusted to the dark just yet — but he can see the paleness of Jason's skin, what he's sure is an arm and is slightly less sure is the top half of a back before the blankets cover any more.

He strips down to his underclothes, to the black briefs and muscle shirt he wears beneath the armor, and then moves over to the bed. His steps are soft by habit, but there's no disguising the way the bed dips when he climbs onto it. Jason shifts up, head twisting towards him, and he catches the glimpse of dark eyes before he's close enough to straddle Jason's legs, stealing his mouth. It's rough, twisted like they are and connected over Jason's shoulder, but it's still all too easy to tangle one of his hands in Jason's hair and just _pull_.

Jason resists, of course, but ultimately yields because he always does. Jason only truly digs his heels in, and doesn't _stop_ , when he's completely against the idea of whatever's been suggested. There are words Jason has for those moments, words he could stand to hear more often, frankly, but he won't deny Jason what he wants and needs. Jason would tear him apart if he thought he was holding back when it wasn't wanted; he still frequently complains — though not with substance — that he's not fragile and he shouldn't be treated like he is.

He really _doesn't_ count bruises and bites, and the way Jason's thighs _shake_ when he does it long enough, as treating him like he's fragile, but he doesn't argue either. Some battles are best left alone.

Jason groans when he sucks his way down the line of that pale throat, and he feels the shoulder against him roll, knows that Jason's reaching to grab his hair in turn. He intercepts it with his free hand, wrapping his fingers around Jason's wrist and pulling it down, pinning it against his waist as he presses closer to Jason's back, sucks a little harder at the joint of his neck and shoulder. Jason presses back against him, twisting against his hold, neck arching away from him to offer more skin.

But Jason also groans again, hisses out a breath and complains, "Control freak."

He doesn't respond, just presses his nose against Jason's skin and pulls a bit more at the hair between his fingers. Jason twists some more, arching back, and then fingers scrape along the back of his head. Jason's arm has to crane at an odd angle to reach him, back around his own head, but those fingers manage to get a light grip in his hair. Not hard enough to yank, but enough to scrape blunt nails over his scalp.

He gets a solid bite into Jason's shoulder, sinks his teeth in until they threaten to break skin and Jason is twisting, legs pushing against the bed, arching and groaning low in the back of his throat. Trying to break free, but not _really_ trying. If Jason actually wanted him off, there are at least a dozen ways to make him let go of this half a pin that Jason could fall back on. The lack of that means Jason is just struggling to feel the containment, to _enjoy_ it.

He eases his teeth away but tightens his fingers around Jason's wrist, sliding his hand down so his arm is around Jason's chest, pressing that hand down to pin it against his stomach.

" _Bruce_ ," Jason all but growls, fingers trying and failing to get a better grip on his hair, back twisting against him, challenging.

"Are you going to behave for me, boy?" he asks, letting his voice darkening into the rough growl of the Batman voice, speaking almost directly into Jason's ear.

Jason shudders as he always does, baring his teeth and _snarling_ , always completely unwilling to back down until he's made to. He expects the way Jason jerks, back arching towards him in a way that's almost like a throw, if they were standing and he had put _force_ into it. It's not hard to fake a counter to it, but then Jason is jerking for real, gasping, yanking against the grip on his wrist.

"Fuck," Jason hisses. "Jesus, _fuck_. Bruce, let go. Let _go_. _Lazarus_."

He does, as fast as he can manage, and Jason folds away from him, groaning in obvious pain. He stays frozen for a moment, before he leans over Jason, reaching for the light on the bedside table. It stings his eyes, but it's worth it to be able to see Jason's curled, collapsed form, and the arms twisted back to press both hands against a spot on the right side of his low back. There's blood sliding down from between those fingers; a single trail of it.

"Shit. Mother _fucker_." Jason's teeth are bared, eyes screwed shut, but a second later his expression smooths out, eyes opening again and head tilting back a bit.

He reaches down, pulling Jason's hands out of the way so he can get a look at the source of the pain. There's a bit of resistance, but Jason doesn't stop him or tell him to stop, so he ignores it. The wound is covered in a smooth, taped-down pad, and he carefully pulls that away, folding it up so it's still hooked at one side but he can see the injury in its entirety. It doesn't look that bad; what looks like a knife wound, about three inches in length and a fraction of that in width. It must have been deep though, because there are black stitches holding it together, or there were. Several have popped open, pulled at the flesh and reopened some of the wound.

"Jason—" he starts to say, and gets a snarl for it.

"I'm _fine_. It's just a couple stitches, old man." Jason pushes up, pulling away from him as he sits up, as if to get off the bed. "Fuck off and let me patch it up; if it bothers you, you can come back in a couple days and fuck me then instead."

His gaze is lingering on the popped stitches, and the ones still holding that look uneven, crooked. "Did you do these yourself?" he asks, completely ignoring Jason's defensiveness.

Jason bristles, glaring over his shoulder. "Do _not_ be critiquing my stitches right now, you bastard. It was an awkward angle and I was tired, alright? It's not like anyone else was going to do it." Jason's tone sharpens a little. "Not all of us have butlers, old man."

It stings a bit that Jason would ever think that he couldn't come by the manor and get stitched up, but he pushes that thought away. It's not that Jason thinks he can't, but that Jason doesn't _want_ to most of the time. Of all of his sons, Jason is the most fiercely, defensively, independent, like he thinks he has to constantly prove to the world that he's capable with every breath. The times that Jason lets anyone help him are few and far between, and even if he needs it he won't ask any of their family for assistance. He'll go to his old teammates instead; Harper and Koriand'r. If his son is going to be looking elsewhere for help, at least he has two dedicated friends.

There aren't, relatively, that many people he would trust to take care of Jason outside of their immediate family, but those two qualify. They did an excellent job with Dick, after all.

"Seriously, fuck off," Jason says. "I'll handle it."

He stops Jason from standing with a gentle hand to his shoulder, and then wordlessly slides off the bed and deeper into the apartment, towards the bathroom and the kit he knows is stored within. He makes sure that all of his safehouses are fully stocked, no matter how rarely he uses them. Everything he uses one night is replaced as soon as possible. Jason, despite his denial of needing help, doesn't actually stop him from heading to the bathroom, doesn't even complain. Nor is there any complaint when he comes back with the kit and situates himself behind Jason, at a better angle to work on this.

Firstly, he snaps the remaining stitches, deciding to just redo the whole thing instead of leaving it with its awkward, crooked stitches.

Jason snorts, a bit of pain to his voice as he mutters, "Control freak."

He doesn't rise to the provocation, and Jason stays more or less silent as he redoes the stitches, only once hissing something like a bitten off swear. The wound closes just fine, and he carefully cleans up and presses a new pad in place, holding it with one hand while he retrieves the tape with the other. Jason doesn't protest the pressure of his hand, despite how it must sting, and lets him tape the pad down without any of his usual grumbling.

He sets the kit aside on the bedside table, and then carefully runs his hands down Jason's upper arms, gripping lightly as he lowers his head and presses an equally light kiss to the top of the closest shoulder. Jason's head is bowed, the back of his neck open, and he takes advantage to press another kiss there, right over the most prominent knob of his spine.

Jason shifts, but doesn't complain about the gentle treatment. It's unusual enough that he pauses, breathing over the nape of Jason's neck as he asks, "Are you alright?"

For a moment Jason doesn't answer, and then there's a quiet sigh, almost resigned. "I'm tired," Jason admits, in a murmur. "I can't do this tonight, Bruce. Not with the—" There's a wave of one hand towards the injury. "I can't."

He pushes aside that lingering thought that maybe Jason thinks that's all there is to this. That it's nothing but the roughness, the nights spent cloaked in a different kind of darkness, with skin pressed against skin until it's hard to tell where they separate. That it's all physical, nothing more than the pleasure and the pain.

He hasn't committed, this isn't _official_ , but it's also definitely not just physical. What he wants, what he really wants, is to give Jason whatever he needs. Whatever that means.

"It's alright," he murmurs, sliding his arm around Jason's uninjured side, holding his boy to him.

"It fucking sucks is what it is," gets snapped back at him. "Was really looking forward to this, and now I'm stuck like some kind of fucking cripple and that's blown all to hell. When's the next time we're going to get to do this? Weeks?"

He presses his nose to the back of Jason's neck, lowering his other hand to rub along the outside of one firm thigh, beneath the blankets. Jason's still grumbling, complaining, and he feels fondness bloom in his chest, feels one corner of his mouth tug up into a small smile. It's not right to say that Jason is all bite and no bark — he's got scars to prove that isn't the case — but more that Jason doesn't actually mean ninety percent of the things he gripes about, not seriously anyway. It's endearing, once you get used to it.

As he listens, feeling Jason's weight resting against his chest, an idea sparks to life in his mind. A way to make the night less of a loss in his partner's mind.

Maybe Jason can't have what he came for, but that doesn't mean he can't have anything.

"—and it's just total bullshit. One fucking guy gets lucky with a damn _scimitar_ and—" Jason inhales sharply at the inwards slide of his hand, up between those thighs with gentle pressure, over the red boxers that are all that separates him from familiar skin. "Bruce?" Jason asks, as he rubs in small circles. He gets a small gasp, a twitch of motion, before a snarled, "I— I _can't_ , you damn _tease_."

He hums agreement, but doesn't stop. "You'll have to be careful," he comments. "Stay still, let me do the work… Can you stay still for me, Jason?"

While he waits for Jason to answer, he slides his fingertips in beneath the band of the boxers, lightly scraping his nails along the sensitive skin there, and gets a full body shudder for it. Jason arches a little bit, and he tightens the arm he has hooked around that chest to force him flat again, held against his chest tightly enough to actually keep Jason there unless he truly struggles.

"Are you serious?" Jason says, somewhere between incredulous and almost a little irritated.

He slides his fingers a little lower, wrapping them around the slight hardness of Jason's cock, smiling at the small hiss, and the way Jason's back tries to arch again. For all his enjoyment of roughness, and pain, Jason is remarkably sensitive when it comes to anything softer. It's a fact he doesn't get to exploit enough, in his opinion. It's a rare day that Jason's satisfied with — or really needs — anything beyond their usual collision of muscle and teeth; he's the weak one in that regard.

"God, you _sadist_."

"I really wasn't intending on hurting you," he corrects mildly, carefully squeezing and releasing Jason's cock in gentle increments, feeling it start to swell in his hand. "My intention was to keep you from hurting yourself."

"Alright, so we're back to control freak then," Jason snaps, but he's not saying any of his words, not even demanding to be let go or struggling. That's as close to permission as he's likely to get, but that's not quite enough for his purposes.

"So?" he prompts. "Can you stay still for me, Jason?"

Jason snarls back at him, but does finally say, "Yes." Grudgingly, but it's admission.

He rewards that with a firmer stroke, where he can feel the muscles under his arm flex, but there's no attempt at actual movement. "Good boy," he whispers in Jason's ear, knowing exactly what kind of reaction he's inspiring and getting it in the form of a sudden sharp inhalation.

Jason's head tilts back against his shoulder, one hand rising to grab at the arm around his chest and dig nails into it. "Manipulative son of a bitch," he hisses into the air, hips flexing up against his hand. "You're really gonna do that _now?_ "

"If you're good," he promises. "If I lay you down, are you going to behave for me, Jason? Or am I going to have to hold you to keep you still?"

Jason groans, hips pushing up again. "You say that like it's a negative."

He gives a low chuckle. It's true; Jason's always enjoyed being held down, and tied up sometimes. Being made to stay still is hardly something that Jason would avoid, even in a situation like this, and it was probably a silly thing to imagine that it would. In fact, Jason would probably be more satisfied with being held. It can be a freeing thing to no longer be responsible for controlling yourself.

With that in mind, he lets go of Jason and pulls back about an inch, to the sound of a protesting growl. It's not a particularly easy thing, even with his strength, to pull Jason back with him until his back is leaning against the headboard, and Jason is between his spread legs. Jason sort-of helps, in a way, but he's pretty heavy, and moving him while being careful not to twist or pull his side is a challenge. Practice makes it possible, and once he gets Jason arranged to his satisfaction — head against his shoulder, thighs parted, arms 'trapped' against his chest by the wrap of one of his — it's well worth the effort.

Carefully, he shifts his legs in and hooks Jason's calves with his own, drawing him into a gentle pin. Nothing that will work if Jason wants to be free, but enough to make him feel trapped if he desires it, which he's certain Jason does. The head leaned back against his shoulder, exhaling hot puffs of air against his jaw in a slightly rapid pattern, and the flex of Jason's arms to feel the restraint of his hold, says so.

He lowers his other hand again, sliding his fingertips in curling patterns down the muscles of Jason's stomach, until he can push those boxers far enough down to free the important bits. Jason hisses at the first touch of his hand, head turning until lips brush his neck, quickly followed by the graze of teeth.

He almost automatically tells Jason not to leave marks that high up, before he pushes that thought away as hopeless. Jason will do exactly what he wants to, and telling him _not_ to do something — that isn't actually a necessary thing to avoid — will just make him do it more, as long as he thinks he can get away with it. He's asked that Jason not leave marks above the collar before, and generally unless he has a _very_ good reason for it, and explains that reason immediately, those nights end with his neck looking a bit like he got mauled.

He strokes firmly but gently for the moment, letting Jason leave little nipping kisses along his neck in between his sounds, as if he's paying back every time he's forced to make noise. One of Jason's hands twists far enough to get a grip on the arm trapping it, but apart from squeezing, it just seems to be a grounding touch. No nails dig into him, at any rate.

Jason groans a little louder, and he swipes his thumb up, feels the dampness at the head of his cock and smirks. "That's it," he murmurs, tilting his head down and managing to angle them both enough so that he can catch Jason's mouth in a kiss. Much softer than their usual, like the ones that tend to stay reserved for aftercare moments, when Jason is too pliant to complain about it.

" _Bruce_ ," Jason gasps, hips rocking up against his hand. Slow, nothing that will compromise the stitches.

"That's my good boy," he whispers against Jason's mouth, and there's another sharp inhalation. "Behaving so well for me," he continues, capitalizing on the moment of softness. "Does that feel good, Jason?"

Jason shivers, but admits, "Yes. Fuck, yes."

"My gorgeous boy," he praises. "Just lie still and enjoy; I'll take care of you."

A quiet whine breaks its way out of Jason's mouth, before there's another shudder and Jason is twisting his head away. "Don't— Don't _do_ that, B."

"Do what?" he asks, as if he doesn't know. "Tell you what a handsome, beautiful, _good_ boy you are?"

"I'm a _long_ way from beautiful." The denial comes out flat, and he lowers his head to press a kiss to Jason's throat, to rub his nose against that exposed skin.

"Not to me."

Jason arches his back a tiny bit and gives a sound not unlike a strangled sob, though made darker with pleasure. He keeps his mouth pressed to the side of Jason's neck, giving dozens of small, chaste kisses to it as he strokes. Between them, as he works Jason closer to the peak, he offers more praise. Murmured words about how good he's being about staying still, how attractive he is, how good he sounds. Jason whines, shivers, but doesn't deny any more of it. It probably doesn't register as a direct connection, but he rewards that by moving his hand a little faster, and _exactly_ how he knows that Jason likes.

It takes a little longer than he's used to, but that's easily chalked up to the lack of additional stimuli, as well as the fact that Jason must be in at least a little bit of pain, regardless of the relative lack of movement. When he notices the warning signs — desperate, ragged breaths, and the dig of nails into his arm — he tightens his grips a bit, making sure he has a firm hold on Jason and can stop the arch that's undoubtedly coming. Not that he expects Jason to purposefully misbehave, but more that Jason _always_ arches when he comes; it's automatic for him.

"Bruce," Jason eventually groans, head twisting against his shoulder and pressing hard back against it. "I— I'm—"

"I know," he soothes. "Come for me, Jason. Come on, boy."

Jason gasps, jerking a little bit, and then gives a low, long moan and begins to arch. He presses down, keeping him pinned, as Jason comes up over his own stomach, shuddering against him, that moan rising into a higher pitched gasping cry of a sound. Not the shaking, tense, impact of the orgasms he usually gives, but something gentler, something more drawn out. He milks it, keeping his touch gentle but persistent until Jason makes a choked, protesting noise, lying mostly limp.

He smiles, easing his hand away and pressing a last, lingering kiss below Jason's ear. "That's my good boy," he murmurs, as he pulls away.

Jason's hand tightens on his arm when he starts to move it, and then there's a soft, "No, don't— Don't let go."

He pauses, and then settles back into position. "As you wish."

There's a moment of silence, before Jason's head turns, avoiding his eyes but tucking in underneath his chin. He can feel slight dampness against his skin, and automatically gives a soft, comforting sound at the evidence of tears.

"It's alright," he whispers, against the top of Jason's head. "I can stay as long as you need, my boy. I swear."


End file.
